


late, but never too late for you

by teaDragon



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mostly Fluff, Non-Graphic Description of Injury, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), Sleepy Cuddles, Tiny bit of Angst, aziraphale is a grumpy invalid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:55:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23167339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaDragon/pseuds/teaDragon
Summary: Crowley gets a late night text from Aziraphale that seems worryingly short and not at all like his usual rambling self. Naturally he goes over to investigate, just in case anything is wrong.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 409
Collections: Classic Good Omens Fics





	late, but never too late for you

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this thing lying around half written for over a year, it's time to get it out there! 
> 
> Sort of a fusion between book and tv verse? Mostly book with some tv influences?? It's just a small soppy piece really, I don't think it matters overmuch.

It was late. One of those long dead hours after midnight where nothing quite felt real and you could almost trick yourself into thinking that time had simply ceased to have meaning altogether.

Crowley was sprawled across his sleek leather couch, scaly feet up on the arm, spine bent in a way that a human could only achieve with a fatal _snap_. On the sinfully wide screen across from him played a late-night game show, the kind where people actually paid to go through all kinds of humiliating obstacles at the slim chance of winning a large cash prize. He sniggered as a man was dropped through a trap door into a pool full of bright green goo. The other contestants shot at him with styrofoam guns as he tried to climb the plastic footholds on the wall to escape, all while a large counter ticked down the seconds he had left ominously.

The demon fumbled for his wine glass, keeping his eyes on the screen, and wishing vaguely that he had a certain someone to share the decently aged Zinfandel with. As Aziraphale had been called off to help with some minor political crisis he was left to his own company.

A buzzing sound over by his foot got his attention. He looked around wildly as it sounded again. 

His mobile!

Scrambling upright in a flurry of long limbs he grabbed for it. Though Crowley would never admit as much, there was really only one person who knew this number.

Angel: 

_I'm back, see you in the morning_

Aziraphale was back! Crowley grinned stupidly at the phone for several long moments. The smile slowly slid off his face as no other message followed.

Yellow eyes blinked incredulously at the screen. 

That was _it?_

The angel was always overly prolific with his texts, long and rambling, though Crowley had managed to break him of the habit of sending each text as if it were a letter, with an address and fondest regards at the end*. 

*Aziraphale still opened his texts with a ‘Dear Crowley’, ‘Dearest Demon,’ ‘Wily Serpent’, ‘Villainous Viper’, ‘Most Wicked Adversary’ or if he were very, very lucky ‘You Incorrigible Fiend You’. That last one was reserved for occasions when he had done something especially pleasing. 

On the TV, the man was dislodged from his precarious hold by a particularly well-aimed styrofoam bullet, sending him tumbling down into the goo with a yell. The audience cheered and booed as the man splashed to the surface, the timer running out and eliminating the bugger. Crowley didn’t notice.

He hadn’t been addressed at all.

Long fingers drummed against the back of his mobile anxiously. 

Well. The angel _had_ texted him. It might be late, but it wasn’t like Aziraphale was in the habit of sleeping. He could just drop by, maybe say he had been in the area when he’d gotten the text and decided to stop in and make a nuisance of himself.

Yeah.

Crowley rolled off the couch and landed on his feet, making for the door. The TV obediently shut itself off behind him.

Xxx

The lights were off in the bookshop.

This wasn’t unusual in itself for this time of night, but if he pressed himself up against the window Crowley could see the warm glow of the backroom light was conspicuously absent. 

The angel could be in the dusty old flat upstairs. The flat he rarely ever used…

He stepped inside, the bell jingling with a strange note to it as he let himself in. That set him off, unease prickling at his senses. Yellow eyes glanced around the familiar shop, scanning for anything out of place, anything that didn’t belong. There wasn’t any light coming from upstairs.

“Angel?” he called out, watching the shadows closely. “Aziraphale?”

Something crunched under his boot. A single golden-white feather lay on the floor. 

His heart gave an almighty _thump_ in his chest, boarding on painful. Ok, ok. So maybe he flew home. Crowley fought to keep his panic down as he bent to examine it. The bloody angel never preened, of course he’d be shedding.

Blood stained the base of the feather.

With a snarl Crowley threw all of his senses out, hand tightening protectively around the feather. He had to find Aziraphale, he was _hurt_ , something had hurt him—

Another aura bumped against his own, familiar, nearby. _Aziraphale_. Up in the old flat. No one else was in the shop.

“Angel!” He all but flew up the stairs. He burst onto the second floor, searching desperately for his friend.

_There_

The lights were off, but Crowley had never needed them to see. The yellow of streetlights outside were enough to illuminate the figure sprawled out gracelessly on the little used bed. He was next to it in an instant, the old lamp on the nightstand turning itself on hastily.

Aziraphale was laying face down on his dusty old mattress with every appearance of being asleep. 

“ _Aziraphale_ ,” he hissed, eyes latching onto three long gashes marring the angel’s back.

“Nnnh.”

One blurry eye blinked open at him. Aziraphale looked up at Crowley as best he could with one side of his face buried in the pillow. “ _Crowley._ ” He smiled, blinking again. “How nice. Would y’ like some tea?”

“Would I—“ Crowley cut himself off with a strangled laugh. “You _ssstupid_ —no, no, no. You stay down.” He quickly placed a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from getting up. Aziraphale made a petulant sound into his pillow. Crowley ignored him, eyes carefully scanning his back. The long cuts were shallow, though they’d bled quite a bit. 

Reaching out, Crowley shut his eyes and felt his friend’s aura nervously, checking for any signs of deeper damage, any infernal taint. Something dark hung around the wounds, a clear sign of demonic origin. But it wasn’t strong. Aziraphale’s aura was just as it always was, warm and comforting—just much weaker then he’d like it. The angel must be exhausted. Crowley released a long sigh of relief. 

Aziraphale would be fine. Just _fine_.

“Well _I’d_ like some tea,” the angel grumbled into the pillow. He tried to get up again, the muscles in his back straining as he started to get his arms under him.

“No,” Crowley snapped, pushing him down gently. Aziraphale whined, flopping back. “Look. You stay here, all right? I’ll get the bloody tea.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. M’ hosting.”

“ _You_ are loopy. “

Aziraphale sniffed, turning into more of a snuffle. “S’not very nice.” 

Crowley spread his hands exaggeratedly. “Demon. I’m not very nice.”

The angel shifted around a bit to better see Crowley, wincing as the long scratches on his back were aggravated by the movement. 

“And stop that!”

Aziraphale frowned. “M’ uncomfy.”

“Comes of getting yourself mauled,” said Crowley, tucking the covers up around him, careful to avoid touching the scratches. “Now _stay_ there and don’t do anything stupid while I get your bloody tea.”

Aziraphale stuck his tongue out.

Crowley threw his hands up. “Unbelievable.” He huffed and blustered his way down the rickety stairs, pointedly avoiding looking at the trail of blood leading up them. He banished the mess with a wave of his hand, fuming his way into the little kitchenette. With a glare the kettle started steaming, never mind that there hadn’t been any water in it just a moment ago. 

A mug, he needed a mug so he could make the great _bellend_ of an angel his tea and bring it up to him before he killed himself trying to come down the stairs with his back all ripped to shreds. He pulled open the cupboard, hunting for the favoured angel-wing mug and spotting it near the front of the haphazard pile of novelty mugs stacked away in there. 

About halfway to grabbing it he stopped. His hand was shaking. He sucked in a breath, then another. The mugs were suddenly blurry in their cupboard. 

Crowley inhaled sharply, squeezing his eyes shut, one hand supporting himself against the counter, the other fisting in his hair. The slight pain of it grounded him, kept him steady. Behind his closed eyes he saw three dark scratches rent across the soft expanse of Aziraphale’s back, infernal energy cloying to them. 

“Stupid,” he snarled, breathing in and out in great angry breaths.

Someone had hurt his angel. 

A waves of rage swept over him, though him, burning bright and hot as hellfire. The kettle immediately began to whistle, water boiling over just through proximity to him.

_Breath. Just breathe. He’s ok. Aziraphale is hurt, but he’s ok._

He needed his tea.

“Un-bloody believable.”

Rubbing a hand harshly across his face he opened his eyes, taking the angel mug down and fishing out a chai tea bag with firm, determined movements. He glared at the hot water as he poured, daring it to taste anything other than absolutely bloody perfect. A splash of milk and three spoons of sugar later and he was making his way up the stairs, forcing his anger back with each step. Aziraphale didn’t need that. It wasn’t for him anyway.

“Tea time,” Crowley called as he entered, rapping smartly on the doorframe.

Mercifully Aziraphale was still in bed, laying on his side and blinking blearily around the room.

“Tea?” he said hopefully.

“Yep.” Crowley carefully sat down on the side of the bed. He placed the steaming mug on the side table. “Tea.”

Aziraphale looked at the mug all the way over on the little table. His brow furrowed, big beseeching eyes finding Crowley’s. It was almost enough to melt an old demon’s heart.

“Tea is for good behavior.” That earned him a frown. “We’re getting your back sorted first, yeah?”

“No.”

“ _Yesss_. You want to bleed all over your nice sheets? That’s what’s going to happen if you sit up against your pillows like that. Come on now, won’t be a minute.”

With much grumbling and a good deal more wincing than he’d like, they got Aziraphale laying on his front, arms folded under his head. Carefully Crowley placed his hands just over the wounds, feeling the infernal heat coming off the skin. The soft, generous pudge of Aziraphale’s belly squished against the mattress, peaking out from under his bare torso. Something fiercely protective rose up in Crowley. He swallowed harshly.

“Might sting a bit,” he warned.

“S’ all right, my dear.”

Shutting his eyes, he focused on the tendrils of infernal energy deep in the wounds, anger and gleeful hate coursing through them. He pulled it out, gathering it to himself, absorbing it, using it to fuel his own energy, pulsing back at the wound to soothe, to heal.

Aziraphale let out a pained sound, turning into a sigh of relief as the faint burning feeling left him. He melted into the mattress, the pain gone, replaced by a soothing coolness and a deep exhaustion.

“Thank you,” he breathed, half mumbled into the bed.

“Want to tell me how you got your back sliced open?” asked Crowley, focusing on closing the wounds. They did so slowly, the edges meshing back together obediently.

“Tea?”

Crowley sighed. All that was left were three faint red marks. They would fade, give it a day or so. “Yeah, yeah. C’mere. Let’s get you up.”

Settled back against the cushions, fluffed and re-fluffed by a threatening demon, Aziraphale gratefully accepted his tea, sinking into the plushness of the bed with a relived sigh.

Crowley hovered, tucking the covers in around him fussily. “Feeling better?”

“Yes. Thank you my dear.” The angel cradled the mug carefully against his chest, eyes slipping shut, breathing in the warmth of the steam. “Head’s starting to clear.”

“Good. Was beginning to wonder if I should down a few shots of whisky so we could be on the same level.”

Aziraphale huffed, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “You’re terrible.”

“S’ my job.”

Opening his eyes, the angel watched Crowley stand there, stiff and tense, glaring at the bed from behind his glasses. He patted the sheets beside him invitingly. 

“Join me?”

A beat passed. All at once a good deal of the anxious energy left the demon in an audible _whoosh_ as he slumped. Carefully, Crowley pulled back the covers and slid in next to Aziraphale, trying not to jostle him or his tea, trying not to aggravate anything as he settled back against the headboard.

Aziraphale leaned into him, shivering slightly. With a thought Crowley summoned a thick tartan blanket from the sofa downstairs, draping it around Aziraphale’s bare shoulders. He smiled gratefully at Crowley, settling comfortably against his side. Crowley put his arm around him, pulling him closer, careful to avoid the marks on his back. 

“What happened?” Crowley’s thumb rubbed gently against Aziraphale’s arm.

The angel sighed. “Nothing so dramatic as what you’re thinking.”

“No. No no, right. Yeah. Course. Perfectly commonplace for you to come in bleeding all over the shop and pass out. Just another Tuesday, book that in right after tea with Hastur.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Nothing to worry about—“

“You bled on the hardwood.”

“It’s had worse.”

“ _Angel_. What happened?”

He took a long sip of his tea. “It was silly. Was all run down from the trip. Had to do crowd control, keep an eye on some far-right types." The angel made a face. " _Fascists_.”

“Bastards.”

“Agreed.” His tea was warm and comforting, laced with telltale traces of love. “Wasn’t paying attention when I got back. I was tired” He shrugged, wincing slightly at the movement. “A demon got the jump on me.”

“What demon?”

“Lower one. Maybe an imp, I can’t, can’t properly tell them all apart.”

“And it jumped you? _Here?_ In London?” 

“Mmm. Ghastly little thing. No offense, of course.”

“They’re imps, they’re supposed to be ghastly,” said Crowley testily. He hissed. “Thisss isss my turf. They sssshould know better than that.”

“Must’ve been new, I thought.” Aziraphale ran a hand through his curls tiredly. He looked exhausted. “Sorted him out. Sent the fellow packing, as it were.”

“Bet you did.”

“Doubt we’ll be seeing him again. Think he might have preferred violence to a scolding.”

Crowley snorted, a dizzying wave of frustration and affection rushing through him. A ruddy imp had tried to kill Aziraphale and he’d _lectured_ the bugger. “Clearly you’ve shown him the error of his ways.” 

“You laugh, but he was crying by the end of it.”

“ _Good_. Teach him to go around attacking angels.” 

“Demons are supposed to attack angels, dear.”

“Not on my bloody turf they aren't.”

“Mmm.”

They sat in silence for a while, Aziraphale drinking his tea, Crowley holding himself very still and glaring darkly across the room. As soon as the angel finished Crowley took the mug from him, placing it back on the side table before Aziraphale could trouble himself.

Hands free, Aziraphale sat back further, wiggling down into the mattress with a satisfied sigh. He rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder. Slowly, Crowley’s arms snaked around him, holding him close.

“There, there.” Aziraphale patted him. “See? Nothing to worry about.”

Crowley let out a half muffled hiss, curling around his angel, breathing in the warm, dusty scent of him. Aziraphale was _fine_. He was safe and warm and absolutely tickety-boo. It was fine.

“Feeling better, dear?” asked the angel softly.

Crowley blinked back tears, _finally_ coming down from the panic driven high he had been riding on. “Sssss my line.”

“Nonsense.”

“Ssstealing from me,” he hissed into Aziraphale’s curls, giving him a squeeze.

“Borrowing.”

“Plagiarizzzzing.”

Aziraphale giggled. “You silly old serpent.”

“ _Your_ silly old serpent,” he vowed.

“Well obviously.”

Crowley finally pulled away, blinking away the stupid tears that had definitely not been there. Warm hands cupped his cheeks, guiding him down to meet his angel’s fond gaze. Aziraphale smiled at him, and kissed him soundly on the nose.

“Nnk,” managed Crowley, smitten all over again.

“There now.” Aziraphale settled more fully against him, hand coming up to cover his mouth as he yawned. Crowley tugged the covers up, shifting them both so they were laying flat, tucked securely under the old tartan quilt. Aziraphale snuggled up to him, all warm and soft and utterly irresistible to do anything with other than to cuddle.

“Sleep s’what you need,” said Crowley, curling around him, tucking him in close and safe.

“Mnh. Was rather hoping for a little something to eat?”

“It’s never stays a little something with you.” Aziraphale made a grumpy sound, burrowing into Crowley’s chest. “And besides, you’ll just fall asleep in it.”

“Won’t.”

“Will.”

“Won’t.”

“ _Will_ , look, you’re already drooling on me.”

“Mgggh.”

Crowley gazed down at the warm grumpy lump snuggled up to him, more than half asleep, something impossibly warm growing in his chest. “We’ll go out for breakfast in the morning,” he said softly.

“…crepes?”

“As many as you like,” promised Crowley.

“Mmmh."

Crowley waved the light off, the room plunging into a comfortable darkness, the warm angel in his arms reminding him that he was very tired and could use a nice long nap.

"...quiche?”

"Of course," whispered Crowley, smoothing down the covers. 

"...cocoa?"

He barely bit back a laugh. "Yes, that too. Now go to sleep, and dream of whatever you like best."

"Mmm. You, then."

Crowley pressed a kiss to his forehead, unable to help himself.

"...Crowley?"

"Angel."

"Thank you. For t'night."

"'Course. Don't be sssilly."

"Didn't want t'worry you this late."

"Too bad. I was up."

"Mmn." Aziraphale huffed, sleepy and slow, eyes drooping shut. 

"And it's never to late for you," whispered Crowley.


End file.
